


"That Uniform Is Wasted On You."

by governess_of_floods



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cabinlock, F/M, M/M, sherlock is a cutie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:54:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1250080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/governess_of_floods/pseuds/governess_of_floods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock worries that Martin is lonely. He decides that the way to fix it is to discreetly find him a girlfriend.<br/>Hi-jinks ensue with the help of John and Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

221B was unusually quiet. John shut the door and carried the shopping bags into the kitchen with the slight apprehension that quietness of this kind always brought on. The kitchen, however, was as clean as it had been when he left to go to work that morning. John opened the fridge warily- perhaps the quietness was an attempt to placate John before he found something awful- but its contents were largely notable only for their inoffensiveness. Relieved, John unpacked the shopping and put it away.

 

He puttered into the living room. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, elbows on knees and chin on hands. He gave no indication that he had noticed John's appearance. “I got milk.” John said.

 

Silence. Sherlock frowned slightly. He was clearly working on a problem. John sighed, sat down at the table and opened his laptop.

 

Which had about twenty tabs open already. “Sherlock! Stop using my computer!” Sherlock looked up, guiltily. Well, that was new. Had the world turned upside down and now he would apologise?

 

Ah no. That was embarrassment, not guilt. “Wait- Sherlock, why on earth were you looking at these?” John read the titles blankly. _What Men Want in a Woman. How To Find a Boyfriend. How to Find a Girlfriend. How To Get a Girlfriend: Tough Love Tips from Real Women. The One Mistake that Turns Women Off. Yahoo Answers: Sex and Relationships. Are Men in Uniform Really More Attractive? Uniformdating.com. Dating Tips for Shy Men._

 

John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock wriggled uncomfortably. “It was for a case.” he said. John looked disbelieving. Sherlock tried to look unconcerned.

 

“If it was for a case you wouldn't be so embarrassed.” John said, reasonably.

 

“I'm not embarrassed. Honestly John, your deductive skills are even more sub-par than usual.”

 

“Yes you are. Your ears have gone red.”

 

“Um. Have not.”

 

“Anyway, if it was for a case you would have told me about it.”

 

Sherlock mumbled something.

 

“If it's a case I need it for my blog. It sounds like something a lot of readers would be interested in.”

 

Sherlock's face brightened momentarily before he fixed a haughty, put-upon expression on it. “That's why I didn't tell you. We need to project some semblance of intelligence and this case, quite frankly, reads like the plot of a penny dreadful.” he said.

 

“Oh really?”

 

Sherlock sniffed.

 

John grinned wolfishly and leaned forwards. “So, what's this case then?”

 

“Just a thing... a thing for Mycroft. A favour. Honestly, John, you wouldn't be interested.”

 

“Shouldn't have used my computer then, should you?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It's _boring_ , John.”

 

“You looking up uniform dating sites is boring? I don't think so. I think it's pretty hilarious actually.”

 

Sherlock glowered at him.

 

John continued blithely. “You know, if you don't tell me what you were doing I'm just going to assume you were looking up dating tips for yourself. I'll try not to tell anyone else, but you know how these things slip out... Lestrade has a uniform, you know, even if he doesn't wear it often. I could drop him a hint or two if you'd like?”

 

There was a pregnant pause. Sherlock continued to glare. John gazed back at him with a look of studied innocence.

 

John opened his mouth again.

 

“ _Fine_.” Sherlock bit out. “Not for me.”

 

John looked expectant.

 

“My brother phoned this morning. To... um, chat _._ He's _lonely,_ I could hear it. Things are getting him down and he works so hard, he doesn't have much time to meet people, and I though I could... help him along, as it were.”

 

“ _Mycroft?_ Mycroft is _lonely_?”

 

Sherlock looked vaguely disapproving.

 

“Not Mycroft. My other brother. Half-brother. Martin. He's an airline pilot. Younger than me. Lives in Fitton.”

 

“There's more of you?” John said with a slight look of terror. “And is he... going to kidnap me, or anything? Have me followed by MI5? Threaten me with an umbrella?”

 

Sherlock sighed. “He's an _airline pilot._ The most he can do to you is give you motion sickness if you fly with him- which, by the way, I don't recommend. Mycroft occasionally charters them to fly agents he despises a long way away.”

 

“Oh. Alright. And you're planning on, what... being a dating coach to him? Did he actually say he wanted to date anyone?”

 

“Not in so many words. I deduced. It matters to him what other people think, he has friends but his low self-esteem leads him to worry that they value him less than they actually do, he earns very little so lives in a shared house with a lot of students- he's very proud about taking money from other people, he checks his bank statements rigorously to stop Mycroft sneaking payments in there. Mycroft still does, of course, but now only in small odd amounts in the hope that they'll slip under the radar- who he becomes more distanced from the older he gets, so having someone to spend his free time with would mean a lot to him. He's a very tactile person, so physical affection would boost his well-being considerably, and generous, so making someone else happy increases his happiness to a far greater extent than reasonable. I don't plan on telling him, he wouldn't take it well. Just to, erm, nudge the right people in the right direction. As it were.”

 

John was touched. Sherlock's affection for his brother was evident, however oddly expressed.

 

“Oh for god's sake, John. I do occasionally do nice things. There's no need for you to look so bewildered.”

 

John tried to rearrange his expression to something more opaque. Sherlock managed to wordlessly signal his complete and utter failure at this.

 

“So... you're going to find someone to set him up with?”

 

“ _Yes_ John. Were you not listening to a word I said?”

 

“Okay. Good. I mean, good job.”

 

There was a pause.

 

“How are you going to find the right person?”

 

“ _We_ , John, are going to go out and look for them. The game... is on!”

 


	2. Chapter 2

They started their search the next day, taking the train to Fitton in the morning. The train was nearly empty as it pulled out of Euston, so John and Sherlock sprawled out over a table seat. Sherlock had brought a bag, which sat on the seat next to him. John vaguely hoped it contained nothing illegal. The sun shone through the window, making John squint as he watched London disappear. He glanced over to Sherlock, who was reading a thick book with intense concentration. John tilted his head to read the cover. It turned out to be called _For Young Men Only: A Guy's Guide to the Alien Gender._

 

Sherlock met his eye loftily. “Women are not my area, John. Accurate research is important.”

 

“Yes... yes. Of course.” John said, and turned his head to the window to hide his smile. He could feel Sherlock's eyes boring into him.

 

The train clattered on.

 

“So,” John asked, “Is Martin more like you or like Mycroft?”

 

“No-one's like Mycroft. Except Mycroft... He _looks_ more like me, I suppose. A bit shorter. With red hair. If you mean his personality, he's quite different from both of us. Less... abrasive, so I've been told.”

 

“I don't think you're abrasive.”

 

Sherlock raised a challenging eyebrow. “Well. Not all the time.” John amended. “But he's not... you know...” He waved a hand.

 

Sherlock looked blank.

 

“Incredibly intimidating.”

 

“Oh! No. Not at all. He's quite shy, actually.”

 

There was a pause. Sherlock turned a page. A thought struck him, and he looked up.

 

“Am I incredibly intimidating?”

 

“Sometimes. When you want to be.”

 

Sherlock tried not to look pleased.

 

“Of course, it's a lot harder to find you intimidating when I know you like to walk around the house in socks with bees on.”

 

***

 

Three-quarters of an hour later they were pulling into Coventry station. John and Sherlock stepped onto the platform and looked around for screens showing their connection. “There!” John said. “Next train 10:34. Platform 2. We've got twenty minutes, I'm going to go and get a coffee. Do you want anything?”

 

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “Maybe. I'll come with you.”

 

John bought a medium latte. Sherlock spent a full five minutes scrutinising the board and finally asked for a coffee mocha with cinnamon on the top. “Since when did you drink coffee?” John asked.

 

“I've always drunk coffee.”

 

“You always drink tea at home.”

 

“Home tea is nicer than station tea. Station coffee is okay.”

 

They leaned against the wall of the platform, coffees in hand. Sherlock had his coat collar turned up and scowled broodily into the distance as he brought the cardboard cup to his lips. It was red and jauntily proclaimed itself to be from the Pumpkin Cafe Company. It had a little picture of a pumpkin on it. It was bizarrely incongruous in Sherlock's hand.

 

“Have you ever seen the Pumpkin Cafe Company anywhere other than a station platform?” John asked. “It's strange. Like they can only exist close to train tracks. Like some animals need to live by rivers.”

 

“Hmm.” Sherlock said.

 

It started to drizzle lightly.

 

“It's just passing.” Sherlock said. “It'll be gone by the time we get to Fitton.”

 

Their train swung into view in the distance. John downed the rest of his coffee.

 

The train drew into the station. There was a beep and the doors opened with a swish. Sherlock and John climbed on, and made for the table seats in the centre of the carriage. They sat down.

 

“Give me your jacket.” Sherlock said, putting his bag on his lap and opening it.

 

“What? Why?”

 

“Disguises, John! What if someone recognised us?”

 

“I thought you said Martin wasn't in Fitton at the moment?”

 

“He's not. He's on a job. St. Petersburg, I think.”

 

Sherlock pulled a moss green corduroy jacket from the bag and handed it to John.

 

“So why do we need disguises?”

 

“We're going to talk to people who are hopefully going to meet Martin at some point. I'd prefer it if they didn't give him an accurate description of you and me.”

 

Sherlock took off his own coat and folded it carefully into the bag. He replaced it with a short scuffed leather jacket. John realised he had been wearing dark jeans under his coat. Sherlock owned _jeans_?

 

Sherlock brought out a pocket mirror, a comb and a pair of glasses. He handed the glasses to John, picked up the comb, and began to slick his hair back in an almost greaser style.

 

John sighed, took off his jacket and slid on the green one. Annoyingly, it was a very nice jacket. John rather liked it. He slipped the glasses on and glared at Sherlock. “Happy now?”

 

“Perfect.”

 

Sherlock was rather breathtaking. The clothes made him look awfully young and achingly trendy in an effortlessly careless way, like he'd just flung on whatever was on the floor the morning after the night before, which had probably involved playing in a gig somewhere incredibly cool and then having a lot of sex. Trust him to keep his vanity intact, John thought grumpily.

 

But then Sherlock grinned boyishly, and John couldn't help but grin back.

 

The train pulled into Fitton.


	3. Chapter 3

There was no left luggage in Fitton, but Sherlock charmed the station staff into letting him leave his bag with them anyway.

 

“We could have just carried it with us.” John said.

 

Sherlock shot him a glance that said more clearly than words _Don't be ridiculous John, that's what ordinary people do._

 

They sauntered down Coventry Street towards the centre of town, Sherlock looking alertly at the other passers-by and John taking Fitton in. It was a small, clean town with an impressive amount of flowerbeds. At the entrance to the train station, on a slope, a flowerbed spelled out the words _Welcome to Fitton._

 

They soon reached a market square. It was cobbled, with a small, not-turned-on fountain in the middle and a falafel van parked at the side, serving food through a hatch. The edge was ringed with clothes shops, a chemist's, a florist's, two knitting shops, a second-hand bookshop, an Oxfam, an Age Concern and a tea shop with a red and white striped awning. A Guide Dogs for the Blind donation box in the shape of a very yellow Labrador sat at the tea-shop door. The square was bustling gently with weekday shoppers, and was clearly the commercial hub of Fitton.

 

John and Sherlock came to a stop. Sherlock looked around speculatively. John looked up at Sherlock expectantly.

 

“So. What's the plan?”

 

Sherlock's gaze fell on the tea shop.

 

“Tea.” he said, and strode inside, John almost-but-not-quite jogging to keep up with him.

 

The door made a jangly noise when Sherlock pushed it open, and the people occupying tables already looked up to see who it was. They were mainly old ladies. John thought that many of them gave Sherlock glances that were far too approving. Judging from Sherlock's tiny smirk, this had not passed him by.

 

“Go and sit at that table by the window.” Sherlock said. “I'll get us tea.”

 

John obeyed as Sherlock went up to the counter. The window was wide, running across the whole tea-shop front, and commanded a view of most of the square. There was a white vase with yellow flowers on the table, which was covered with a red and white checked cloth. For some reason it reminded John of Angelo's. John wondered idly if Sherlock did, in fact, regard this as some weird kind of stakeout.

 

Sherlock returned with a tray, setting it carefully on the table before sitting down. It had a pot of tea, a milk jug, a sugar bowl, two white teacups and two slices of tiffin on a plate. Good. Probably not an especially dramatic stakeout then.

 

Sherlock poured the tea, handed John his cup and carefully positioned the tiffin in the very centre of the table.

 

“Tea is your plan?”

 

“Currently, yes.”

 

“Any reason why?”

 

“We're people-watching, John. This seems like a good place to do it, don't you think?”

 

Sherlock picked up one of the slices of tiffin and examined it closely. He took a bite.

 

“I thought you didn't eat when you're thinking?” John said.

 

Petulantly, Sherlock said “I don't intend to think especially hard. People manage to arrange dates all the time, even stupid people. By my reckoning, therefore, it won't require my full concentration.”

 

“Yes, but normal people are much more straightforward. You, on the other hand, are setting out, in a disguise, to find your brother the love of his life without letting on to either your brother, or potential love, that you have any hand in the matter. It's not quite the same as asking someone you like and who likes you if they fancy a drink sometime. Which is how dates normally work.”

 

Sherlock looked a little bit crestfallen. “Not... not good?”

 

John smiled, unable to keep the fondness out of it. “You are ridiculous.”

 

***

 

Some time and another pot of tea later, they had watched so many people pass by that John was starting to worry that Sherlock's standards for Martin were far too high.

 

Although the demographic of Fitton on a Wednesday lunchtime wasn't helping. A large part of it was little old ladies with wheelie shopping trolleys, as far as John could see. There were quite a few young mums with pushchairs and red-faced toddlers, but he assumed that these were unlikely to suit Martin much more than the old ladies. There was also a knot of teenage boys hanging round surlily with skateboards. _Surely they should be in school?_ John thought, and immediately felt old.

 

Perhaps that was just the normal demographic of Fitton though. That would definitely explain why Sherlock felt the need to give Martin a helping hand... and seemed depressingly possible, Fitton being, as far as John could see, very far from either moving or shaking.

 

“How old is Martin?”

 

“Thirty-three. Why?”

 

John rolled his eyes (he really needed to stop doing that, it was a bad habit he'd picked up from Sherlock) and said “Well, if we're looking out for people who might potentially be in a relationship with him, it's a useful piece of information, don't you think?”

 

An audible eye-roll. (It was terribly catching. And how did he even do that?) “I know what I'm looking for. You're just here to help.”

 

Sherlock, gazing out the window all this time, suddenly straightened. John could almost see invisible ears pricked up.

 

“There! Come out to the fountain in ten minutes precisely, John.” Sherlock said, and hurried out without waiting for a reply.

 

John sighed, checked his watch, and watched Sherlock cross the square and disappear into the florist's on the other side.

 

The old ladies in the tea shop looked at him sympathetically, clearly assuming Sherlock's departure to be the ending of an unfortunate rendezvous.

 

John glared at them.

 

***

 

Ten minutes later, John headed out of the tea shop, towards the fountain. Perfectly on time, he saw Sherlock emerging from the florist's with... John was taken aback. She looked nice enough, but probably old enough to be Sherlock's- and so definitely old enough to be Martin's- mother, despite a youthful appearance and dark hair. She was dressed in pink and carried a bag of shopping and a bunch of carnations. She laughed up at Sherlock, who was clearly being completely charming, and touched his arm.

 

Sherlock laughed back. Then, as if on cue, he looked across the square and met John's eyes.

 

He murmured something to the woman, who giggled and darted a glance over to John. Sherlock walked towards John, gracefully, one hand held behind his back, and stopped just before the point of standing on John's toes. He was so close John could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

 

“She's still watching us.” Sherlock murmured. “Don't look surprised.” From behind his back he drew a long-stemmed red rose. “For you.”

 

John took it, because that seemed to be what Sherlock wanted, and stared at the stalk blankly. Sherlock dipped his head, and kissed him on the cheek. “You could at least smile.” he hissed in John's ear.

 

John attempted a rictus.

 

“Oh for heaven's sake. Has she gone yet?”

 

John looked over Sherlock's shoulder. “Yes. I think so. Are you planning on explaining?”

 

Sherlock stepped back to a respectable distance.

 

“Um. I sort of implied that we were together. _For the case._ It was an important part of the disguise. That's okay, yes? Let's go.”

 

John tried to ignore the fond smiles of the old ladies as they walked past the tea shop window.

 

He was still holding the rose.

 

***

 

On the way back to the train station, Sherlock was exuberant. “See! I told you it would be easy.”

 

“You've done it? It's sorted?” John's tone was dubious.

 

“Well, not quite. But as good as.”

 

“And you don't think she's a bit.. old? For Martin? Who's thirty-three? Not that age is a barrier, of course, but, um-”

 

Sherlock cut him off. “No. Of course not her. Her daughter. Who is single, just turned thirty, librarian, romantic, fond of red hair, just landed a more stable job and is ready to settle down, and is just about to move house, so will need a removal man, a job it just so happens Martin does on the side. I made small talk about flowers to the mother just then, making it sound as though we were an, erm,  _loved-up_ couple, and dropped heavy hints suggesting that we would like to see your friend, Martin, in a similar position. I then happened to mention that he was an airline pilot but also an occasional man with a van- very hard worker, that lad- and she was very keen to ask me for his number. Extrapolating from the mother's character traits, I imagine it to be exceedingly unlikely that the resulting action fails to result in a romantic entanglement.”

 

Sherlock smiled blindingly at John.

 

“Hmm.” said John. “We'll see.”

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Back in London, Sherlock immediately headed to his room to change and fix his hair, reappearing back to his normal smart self.

 

John was vaguely disappointed. Sherlock in scruffy clothes seemed less armoured- not more likeable, that would be horrendously shallow, he thought- but a little less commandingly puissant. John rather liked scruffy Sherlock.

 

Sherlock opened his laptop. He clicked his tongue.

 

“Any new cases?” John asked.

 

“No. None that aren't _boring_ anyway.”

 

John raised his eyebrows and reached for the paper.

 

Sherlock's phone began to ring.

 

“Pass that, will you?”

 

“It's on the arm of the sofa. You're sitting at the table. I'm in my chair. It's _easier_ for you to get it.” John grumbled, but got up anyway. He put the phone in Sherlock's outstretched hand with only slightly more force than was necessary.

 

Unknown number. John hoped it was a shy client, and not, say, a criminal mastermind playing terrifying mind games.

 

“Hello Sherlock.”

 

Or the British Government.

 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock managed to cram an astonishing amount of displeasure into two syllables.

 

From the other end of the phone came a noise that, had it been anyone else on the line, John would have said was a stifled giggle.

 

His brain refused to picture Mycroft giggling. He put it down to problems with the signal.

 

“It won't work, you know, Sherlock.”

 

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

 

There was a pause as all parties debated the likelihood of this.

 

“ _Why_ won't it work?” Sherlock said.

 

“Have you considered the possibility that Martin is perfectly capable of sorting out his own life?”

 

“Yes. He's not. Go away.”

 

John could hear Mycroft raise a disbelieving eyebrow through the phone.

 

“Anyway, why won't it work? It will work. I researched it extensively, and acted logically.”

 

“Far be it from me to doubt you, little brother, but this is hardly an area you have much expertise in.”

 

“Nor do you.”

 

“Oh... I wouldn't quite say that, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock pulled a repulsed face.

 

John tried not to laugh.

 

“ _Mycroft._ Why are you telling me it won't work?”

 

A sigh from the other end of the phone.

 

“Well. The general principle was sound but the details are sadly absent.”

 

Sherlock looked ready to burst with impatience.

 

Mycroft took his time, his tone deliberate and amused. “The woman in question was clearly a romantic. Judging from your course of action,” (John blushed), “I gather you deduced as much.”

 

“The pink.”

 

“Indeed. Which does mean a certain yearning for being swept off one's feet to some extent, ludicrous as that notion is. Martin, of course, is rather far from being a romantic hero.”

 

“That doesn't mean it won't work!”

 

“No. However. Knowing, as we do, Martin's single-minded focus on any given job, coupled with his general inability to speak to- well, pretty much any- woman, don't you think it rather likely that he will not only fail to sweep any young woman up in his arms, but also be entirely oblivious to any romantic overtures made by a client for whom he is working?”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth.

 

Mycroft cut across him. “And even if, by some miracle, he did notice, don't you think he'd consider it rather unprofessional? Martin, as we know, is a stickler for professional conduct.”

 

“In his airline work! Not as a man with a van.”

 

“It's a defining feature of his personality. Of course he's the same whether he's flying a plane or humping boxes into a van.”

 

Sherlock looked sulky.

 

Mycroft managed to make silence sound smug.

 

***

 

Two days later a small box appeared outside the door at the top of the stairs. It was tied with a wide red ribbon in a bow. John picked it up curiously and shook it by his ear.

 

“It could be a bomb, you know.” Sherlock's voice rang out from the living room.

 

John, now handling the package with considerably more care, carried it into the living room at arms' length.

 

“Although clearly it isn't.” said Sherlock, taking possession. “Mycroft always was something of a drama queen.”

 

He opened the box. Inside was a small flash drive.

 

“Honestly. He could have just emailed it.”

 

Sherlock plugged the flash drive into John's laptop and pressed play. Mycroft's voice came out of the speaker.

 

 

“ _Martin. Hello. How are you?”_

 

“ _Hello Mycroft! Um. Yes. Not too bad. Just got back from a job. How are you?”_

 

“ _Yes. Good.”_

 

_A pause._

 

“ _Martin... the job that you just got back from. Did you notice anything unusual about the client?”_

 

“ _What? No. She's not... wanted or anything? Oh my god, I wasn't transporting stolen goods, was I?”_

 

“ _No, nothing to worry about. I just wondered if you noticed anything strange about her, that's all.”_

 

“ _Um... not really. She made me tea. With a lot of sugar. Does that count as strange?”_

 

_A pause._

 

“ _Actually, I think I had dirt on my face. She kept looking at me weirdly. That's me being strange really though, not her, isn't it? Was that all you wanted to know?”_

 

“ _Yes, thanks Martin. That's very... informative.”_

 

“ _Okay. Speak to you soon.”_

 

“ _Goodbye, Martin.”_

 

 

The recording stopped. Sherlock stood up, and stomped out to the kitchen, glaring at John who was trying and failing to hide a grin.

 

“You need to stop being so competitive.” he called after Sherlock. “It's bad for your blood pressure.”

 

Sherlock reappeared determinedly. “It's just human error. Next time it will work.”

 

“If you say so.”

 

"Shut up, John. You're not helping."

 


	5. Chapter 5

A few days later saw an old couple sitting on a bench in Fitton town park. The husband was short, with a grey moustache, long grey coat and a cloth cap pulled over his eyes. The wife was more stylish in a Marks and Spencers way, in a long powder blue coat skimming the top of a dark grey, sharply pleated ankle length skirt. She wore low court heels, thick nude stockings and a navy blue headscarf over silver grey curls. On her lips was a smudge of coral lipstick. They were both wearing sunglasses. They sat side by side, looking out at the lake.

 

The husband stole a glance to the side. He grimaced, and looked away, fighting complicated emotion. “I can't look at you.” he muttered. “You look absolutely _ridiculous,_ how am I meant to keep a straight face?”

 

“I told you you should have been the woman, John.”

 

“And I told you that if I had to dress up as an old lady you could go on your own.”

 

Sherlock scowled in a very unladylike fashion. “It's not like you've never done it before.”

 

“Wha-- oh. Sherlock, you have to stop going through my stuff. And that photo's from uni. And it was the whole rugby team, it wasn't just me.”

 

There was a pause.

 

“Did you see Mike, though?”

 

“It was a good look on him.”

 

They giggled.

 

***

 

Half an hour later, both were rather bored of the view. The parade of dogs going by had rather lost their appeal, as had the ducks, the lake, the rather drab grass, the few trees and the flowerbeds seemingly single-handedly trying to make up for the park's other failings. Suddenly, John perked up. “Is that him?”

 

“Where?”

 

“Just come through the far gate. With the big red dog.”

 

“Ah. Yes.”

 

“He does look really like you.”

 

“He looks a _bit_ like me.”

 

“No. He looks _so_ like you.”

 

Martin was clearly unused to walking large dogs. He held the lead gingerly and was jerked forward every time the dog lunged for something. He set off down the path.

 

“Why is Martin walking a massive dog, by the way?” John asked.

 

“Do try to be more subtle in your observation, John... It's not his dog, it's his sister's- half-sister, not related to me, stop looking so worried. Something... came up for her. So she needed someone to walk it.”

 

“You arranged it so that he had to walk that thing?”

 

They looked over at Martin across the lake. Currently he was fighting to keep control of the dog, which seemed keen on making the ducks' acquaintance. Martin did not look like he rated the activity very highly.

 

“The result will be worth it.” Sherlock said. “You see, any minute now... Ah. There.”

 

Another huge dog bounded happily towards Martin's dog, pulling its lead inexorably with it. On the other end of the lead was a girl in a flowery dress who looked as much in control of her dog as Martin.

 

The two dogs were apparently ecstatic at seeing each other, and gambolled in circles around Martin and the girl. The leads twisted around their legs, Martin's dog barked joyfully and jumped forwards and Martin and the girl lurched forwards and collided into each other with a thud.

 

“Have you been watching many films about relationships?” John asked dubiously.

 

“Maybe some. One or two. For research of course. Why?” said Sherlock.

 

“Well, I feel like if this was a film, it would definitely be a really sappy rom-com.”

 

Sherlock was quiet, clearly trying to work out whether this was a good or bad thing.

 

“In real life, of course, it's probably ridiculously awkward.” said John.

 

He paused. “Although if they do get together it'll be a sickeningly sweet story to tell.”

 

Sherlock, after some consideration, obviously decided to take this as a compliment.

 

Martin and the girl had now managed to disentangle themselves. They were in the process of getting their respective dogs in order and apologising to each other. Martin had gone an interesting shade of red.

 

Sherlock took out a pocket mirror and reapplied his lipstick carefully.

 

Martin and the girl seemed to have bonded over their mutual failure as dog-walkers and were walking round the lake side by side.

 

***

 

Ten minutes later they passed Sherlock and John, heading to the near gate. “Right,” they heard Martin say, “This is where I head off. Hope the rest of your day's nice. Maybe less full of dog.”

 

“Will you be here again? It'd be lovely to see you again.” the girl said.

 

“No, I don't think so. It's not my dog, you see. I'm not a fan of it. I think it's mutual.”

 

Martin gave her a cheery wave before turning and leaving. The girl stood there, looking bemused. Then she shrugged, and headed to the far gate.

 

Sherlock was apoplectic. “How did he not see she was interested? He's not working, it's sunny, everything should have worked perfectly.”

 

John took off his sunglasses. “Never mind. Personal taste?”

 

Sherlock gave him a disdainful look.

 

“How do you know Martin is even straight?” said John.

 

Sherlock looked blank.

 

He paused.

 

“But he _is._ ”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“Everything. Too many reasons to list. Also he's only ever shown an interest in women.”

 

“That doesn't mean he's not interested in men.”

 

“He's not. I would know. I would have deduced it.”

 

John shrugged.

 

On the journey home Sherlock was very quiet.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent today writing in the sun! So sorry if it's a bit rambly, the cat kept interrupting me.

A few days later, John was sitting contently on his chair in the living room and tapping away at his laptop. Late afternoon sun was streaming through the windows and the smell of baking bread was floating faintly up from 221A. He hummed tunelessly to himself as he typed.

 

 _So peaceful_ , he thought. _Almost too good to be true_.

 

Minutes later, he was proved right, as a whirlwind in a sharply-cut suit thundered up the stairs and burst through the door. John sighed internally, and deliberately failed to look up to where he knew Sherlock was standing like an excited puppy, positively vibrating with energy. He slowly typed out the rest of his sentence with two fingers and his tongue between his teeth in assumed concentration.

 

“John.”

 

John clicked his mouse up to press Save.

 

“John!”

 

The dialogue box opened. John typed a name for the document.

 

“ _John!”_

 

With one finger and a flourish, John pressed Enter. He lifted his head with the expression of one who, after a long and arduous struggle, has put the final touches on his _magnum opus_.

 

“What is it?” he said.

 

“I've fixed it, John! Tonight. Fitton. We're going to test your theory.”

 

Sherlock turned on his heel and crashed down the stairs again, leaving the door open.

 

“Where are you going?” John called after him.

 

The crashing stopped.

 

“Do you want to come too?” Sherlock's disembodied voice flew up from the vicinity of the front door.

 

John reached for his coat and headed down as Sherlock continued. “We need new disguises, and research, preparation, we-”

 

John came into view.

 

A note of admiration flashed across Sherlock's face, roughly around the corners of his eyes, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. Which John wasn't, of course. _I was in the military, of course I can be ready to go in a heartbeat,_ he thought, not at all smugly.

 

Maybe a little bit smugly.

 

Sherlock grinned. “Let's go then.”

 

***

They didn't really need disguises, John thought as they sat in the Fitton pub. Its owner clearly thought that “olde worlde charm” and “utterly dingy” were synonymous. Or perhaps it was a deliberate choice to attempt to conceal the frankly alarming stains on the walls and on the mouldering cushions. Either way, the pub was dark enough that their chances of recognition were slim. In addition to this, the inhabitants of Fitton apparently possessed a startling disregard for décor (and also smell; upon stepping in, it seemed thoroughly plausible that the building had not been cleaned since the smoking ban was passed), and thronged the pub, making its warm air fuggy with breath and sweat and beer fumes.

 

“Fitton possesses a surprising number of pubs,” Sherlock said in a low voice, “but an equally surprising lack of imagination.”

 

“You mean they're all like this?” John asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

John scanned the pub.

 

“God.”

 

There was a brief pause.

 

“I doubt very much that any deities have ever visited Fitton.” Sherlock said, in a serious tone.

 

“Maybe not... it's not quite their cup of tea, is it?”

 

They looked out across the room. Men in greasy jackets were apparently engaged in competition to see who could extend their body the furthest over the bar, which was sticky with slopped drinks. The teenage barman was pulling a pint with agonising slowness and pretending not to see them. A man in black leather was sitting alone with his boots up on a chair, reading a crime novel with a lurid cover. A distinguished-looking man with floppy grey hair was winning outrageously at darts. A group of clearly underage boys sat in a dark corner, nursing half-pints and darting furtive looks around the room, which was unanimously utterly indifferent to their presence. One or two women were dotted around the pub, mainly of the matronly type. A hen party in shocking pink sashes sat at a far table, drinking heavily and occasionally piercing the general fug with high-pitched squawks. Every so often a breakaway group would make an expedition to the toilets, leaving a trail of feather boa fluff and party foil scraps behind them.

 

John met Sherlock's eye. They broke into slightly guilty giggles.

 

Their disguises this time were fairly tame. John wore the green jacket again, with a dark wig. Sherlock had merely brushed his hair back and slipped on a pair of thin gold-rimmed spectacles. He wore dark jeans and a pale blue striped shirt. Both were new and had taken the majority of the afternoon to choose. John strongly suspected that Sherlock was now just using the concept of disguise as an excuse to spend time shopping. Both had a pint of a dark honey-coloured bitter at their elbow.

 

The door of the pub opened to let in a newcomer. He was blonde, in his early thirties, dressed in smart jeans, shiny shoes and a black jacket over an ironed, blue and green chequered shirt. The way he wore his clothes was suggestive of someone normally a lot scruffier. Beside him, John felt rather than saw Sherlock paying attention. The man headed to an empty table, hung his jacket on the back of the chair and sat down. Sherlock's gaze intensified.

 

A minute later, Sherlock had not taken his eyes off the man, and John was starting to feel uneasy.

 

“Sherlock,” John said, cautiously.

 

Sherlock continued to stare in a predatory way at the man. “Hmm?”

 

“You're not planning on... um... going out on the pull are you?” Sherlock broke his stare to turn blankly to John. John realised that he might have come across as a bit controlling and sped up. “I mean, not that it's a bad thing if you are, it's good. Good! But I thought we were here for Martin, maybe shouldn't get sidetracked-”

 

Light dawned on Sherlock. “Oh! No. That's Martin's date. I was merely observing.”

 

“ _Oh._ Okay. Fine.” John looked down. “Wait, he actually has a date? As in a _date_ date? With _him?”_

 

“Yes, a _date_ date John. Your command of the English language is sometimes breathtaking.”

 

“How did you manage that? You never told me.”

 

“It was easy. I merely repeated the initial attempt- arranged a meeting via Martin's man with a van work- this time with, obviously, more success.”

 

“I see.”

 

A thought struck John. “Then you agree, I was right- Martin likes men, not women. I deduced something more accurately than you.”

 

Sherlock sniffed. “A wild guess.”

 

John grinned.

 

“So, who is he?” he asked.

 

“His name's Mike. He works in production for a local radio station. He's thirty-four, born in the summer. He hasn't had a long-term relationship for a number of years but is now looking to settle down. He's good at looking after others, as evidenced by his dog ownership. He likes to go walking at weekends. He sometimes plays squash, very badly. He has natural leadership tendencies, and thus possesses above-average self-esteem. He has a younger sister currently living in London, and his parents live in Birmingham, where he grew up. He admits to a taste in indie and folk-rock music but still harbours a fondness for punk and goth rock. His first crush was David Bowie in _Labyrinth.”_

 

“You can tell that? How? I don't even know who my first crush was.”

 

“I deduced.” Sherlock said.

 

There was a beat. John looked at Sherlock sceptically.

 

“Also... um, he said so on his blog.”

 

“I knew it.”

 

“But the rest I deduced. His blog is disappointingly professional. Writes about music, does reviews, easy to tell personality type but harder to tell much else. The meaning behind words is necessarily nebulous to some extent.”

 

“Facts are easier, eh?”

 

“Easier, yes. From a deductive point of view.”

 

“Isn't that what you're interested in?”

 

“Not solely.”

 

John's curiosity was piqued.

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“Well, in a personal capacity, the beauty of much literature lies in its ambiguity, don't you think? Poetry, for instance, would be terribly boring if it was utterly prosaic.”

 

“I didn't know you read poetry.”

 

“Of course I read poetry.”

 

“I just assumed it was, you know, useless information.”

 

Sherlock shot him a long-suffering look. “What is life without art, John?”

 

John opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind and closed it again.

 

Martin walked through the door.

 

He looked around until his eyes fell on Mike. Mike waved and Martin grinned and walked over, joining him at the table. Mike got up and they went through the ritual of “What are you drinking?” “No, no, I'll buy.” “No, let me.” “Well. Okay, but I'll buy the next round.” Their table was close enough for John and Sherlock to overhear their conversation. Side-on to Sherlock and John's table, it also gave them a view of both Martin and Mike in profile when sitting down.

 

Mike went to the bar to get drinks and Martin sat down. He looked around the pub and Sherlock hid his face behind a casually cupped hand, elbows on the table, and mimed intent conversation with John.

 

One of the hen party gave Martin an enormous wink, causing him to blush to the roots of his hair and look down at the table. Sherlock relaxed and put his hand down.

 

Mike managed to attract the barman's attention fairly swiftly, and asked for wine. Beside him, John heard Sherlock's sharp intake of breath. “What?” he asked.

 

“ _Wine._ From _here.”_

 

“You're such a snob, Sherlock.”

 

“Even the _barman_ looks taken aback. If it's drinkable, I'll eat my hat. And it's _white._ Cheap white wine- you might as well drink paint stripper.”

 

“I'm sure it's drinkable. They wouldn't sell it if it wasn't. You're being a drama queen.”

 

“Your optimism is inspiring, John, however deeply misguided.”

 

They watched Mike return to the table, a glass in each hand. Martin tried to hide his dubiousness at the wine.

 

“The barman assures me this is their best wine.” Mike said.

 

Martin swirled his glass and took a sniff. “Did he really say best? Or did he say only?”

 

“Well. Only. I'm sure it's okay though.”

 

“I'm sure it's lovely.” Martin said fairly unconvincingly. He took a sip and winced. “Yeah. It's fine.”

 

Mike smiled, and relaxed a bit more. “So, what's it like being an airline pilot? It must be an exciting job.”

 

“Captain,” said Martin, “I mean, I'm the captain- not that it matters, but, you know, it's not quite the same as just a pilot, and really you don't want to hear me talk about my job, I can go on and on and on- but yes. Um. It is exciting.”

 

“Gosh.” said Mike. He took a mouthful of wine. An acutely pained expression followed. He eyed up the glass with the look of one who has been given a challenge, then took a deep breath and downed half the glass.

 

“Aren't you quite young to be a captain? I tend to think of airline captains as silver haired skygods. Or is that just me and my made-up stereotypes?”

 

Martin brightened. “Yes! Yes I am quite young to be a captain.” He paused. “That's why I do removals as well. I get paid... a bit less... because I'm younger, you see.” More glumly, he added, “I think a lot of other captains are silver haired skygods though. At least they think they are. Well, the ones I meet, anyway. It's quite possible that I'm just _incredibly_ unlucky, though.”

 

“You might not have the silver hair, but I reckon you're secretly a skygod yourself.” Mike said.

 

“Really? Hahaha. Well, I'm all right, I suppose. Wouldn't call myself a skygod just yet though.”

 

“I bet you're just being modest. I bet you're at those controls as smooth as you like- you're a captain!”

 

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

 

Mike drank the rest of his wine. Martin tried manfully to catch up. He failed considerably.

 

Mike was leaning forwards in his chair, eyes intent on Martin. Martin was chatting away blithely.

 

“Sherlock.” John said. “Martin definitely knows this is a date, doesn't he?”

 

“I _think_ so.”

 

Mike was leaning even closer. Martin hadn't moved.

 

“-And that was when I put my foot down,” Martin finished, “And said, _I have to X-ray these geese_.”

 

He laughed, clearly expecting Mike to join in.

 

And that was when Mike put his hand over Martin's, said, “You know, you are really beautiful.” and leaned forwards to kiss him.

 

Martin jumped up. “Oh my god, I'm so sorry- I completely didn't realise- not that you're not lovely, and I'm sure you're, um, beautiful too, but, um, I'm not actually gay. Sorry.”

 

Mike looked a touch crestfallen. “Oh. Okay. Sorry, I misread the signals.”

 

“No offence, mate.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

There was an awkward pause.

 

They both spoke at once. “Well, I should probably get back-” “I've got an early start tomorrow-”

 

Relief flooded both their faces.

 

They left separately, after making entirely insincere pronouncements that yes, they should meet up soon as mates, and they would have loved to stay longer, such a shame they had to rush, terribly sorry, make it up to you next time.

 

Sherlock turned to John, whole body radiating with smugness.

 

“You're not _necessarily_ right.” John said.

 

“But you heard him. He said he's not gay.”

 

“He could have just been sparing Mike's feelings. He could like someone else.”

 

Sherlock looked sceptical.

 

“He could! _Maybe,_ he likes someone else but he's afraid to do anything about it because the person he likes _is a man._ ”

 

“Martin moves in very small circles. I don't think, from his pool of acquaintances, there are any possible candidates for such dramatic unrequited love.”

 

“Well if he's anything like you, I'm sure he can find a way to make anything dramatic.” John said.

 

“But who? You're clutching at straws, John. I'm right, you're wrong. I would have thought you'd be used to that by now.”

 

“No. Tell me who he knows, who he sees regularly- it must be someone he sees fairly often.”

 

“Well. His employer is a Mrs Carolyn Knapp-Shappey. Double divorcee. Rather a dragon, I gather. Not quite Martin's type. Then there's her twenty-nine year old cabin attendant son, whose mental age I suspect to be significantly lower. From what Martin tells me, I think he would find Arthur's chaotic nature a stumbling block too great to overcome. I can't believe I'm even thinking about this. It's clearly ridiculous.”

 

“No, go on. Who else does he work with?”

 

“No-one. Except Douglas, his co-pilot, but-”

 

“Yes! That's it! It must be Douglas. They spend so much time in the pilot bit together, just the two of them, so Douglas is all Martin can think about, but making a move is really high-risk because... because they spend so much time shut in a small metal box hundreds of feet in the sky, and he doesn't know how Douglas feels about him.”

 

“Douglas has been married a number of times. To women.”

 

“There you go then. Martin doesn't know if he's got a chance or not, so rather than ask, he prefers to save himself and pine away. Like a monk.”

 

“I really don't think-”

 

“No. Why else would your setups not work? You're Sherlock Holmes! You always get things right.”

 

“Well.”

 

“Almost everything right. And this is the one thing you've missed this time.”

 

Sherlock looked incredibly dubious.

 

“While we're here,” John said, “do you want to try the wine?”

 

 


End file.
